


Son of the Sea

by salanaland



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Crossdressing, F/F, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary Read becomes James Kidd, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1701: See Me Die

She didn't even know who her father was. 

 When she was eleven, she'd rebelled against her mother and complained about having to visit her brother's ailing grandmother. Her mother had slapped her, to which she had snapped that she didn't understand why her mother didn't just go and ask her father's family for money. And her mother had laughed, and told her that she was welcome to go find the three men who could be her father and ask  _them_  for money.

"Unfortunately," her mother told her acidly, "I only know the whereabouts of one. But he's the only one who could have made such a hellchild as you. You'd better hurry, though. This is your only chance, he's being hanged today."

 Mary fairly flew to the gallows, where a huge crowd had gathered. Elbowing her way through the crowd--even at eleven, she was tall and lanky, a gangly lad in her trousers and homespun stockings--she managed to see the condemned man.

William Kidd. The pirate. Everyone was jeering and catcalling him, asking about his buried treasure. He just smirked. And--trick of the light--his eyes flashed gold, then back to normal. He nodded in her direction, and she bit her knuckles nervously. Was he actually nodding at her? Was he...did he... 

But then he dropped, the noose tightened, and she pushed back through the crowd, running all the way back home. If that was her father, he was dead now, and her mother's message was clear. No more questions, no more demands. 

His eyes, though.

 And the hangman, and the officials beside him, they'd all worn a funny ring, with a cross of red.

She didn't know how it could happen, but maybe if that was her father, maybe she could avenge him. Somehow hurt those men with the rings. She never had, though. She'd become a footboy but she was "too wriggly" for the work, and then she'd gone to sea, but realized she'd never be anything but a deckhand, rarely paid, sleeping with one eye open to avoid the sodomy that a young lad frequently had to suffer in Her Majesty's Navy. So she'd gone back home and joined the army, going from being unable to block a sword stroke, to being the most able young swordsman in her company.

And then they'd joined up with a Flemish unit, sharing tents, and she'd met  _him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She had to get her Eagle Vision somewhere, after all.


	2. 1711: First Conquest

After a few successful sorties, he'd decreed that they needed to celebrate. Mary and a couple of lads had held back when he announced an expedition to the brothel in Breda. "You three especially," he said, smirking. "If you can kill a man, you can become one. I'm paying, so don't worry about that."

She'd resisted, but there was nothing for it. Before long, she was blushing furiously, waiting for the girls to show themselves. She and the other young lads were to have first pick of the prostitutes.

What would she do? She obviously couldn't perform like the others. Not that she wasn't attracted, she was, her eyes lingering on their bountiful bosoms and round bottoms. She wanted to touch them, but after that her imagination failed her. What if she picked a whore who would complain that she couldn't satisfy her? Taking a breath, she caught the eyes of one buxom young woman, who was smiling knowingly. "Her."

The woman smiled and grabbed her hand, pulling her to a private room to a round of jealous applause. Mary mashed her lips against the other woman's, awkwardly. "Wait. Try this way. I'm Mathilde, by the way."

"Mark."

"Let me show you how to love a woman, Mark."

"I...I don't have much..."

Mathilde looked at her, calculating, then kneed her in the crotch firmly.

"I...hey, what was that for?!"

"Your secret's safe with me, young lady."

Mary gawped.

"You have to react quicker to being kicked in the balls," Mathilde explains. "Your chest looks good, nice and flat. Your Adam's apple is passable. As long as nobody sees you piss--"

"I can piss standing up!" Mary said defensively.

Mathilde smiled, impressed. "Then you should be all right. So...did you start dressing as a man just for a job, or to meet women?"

"...what?!"

"I know it's none of my business, except I'd like to know if we should continue how we started." She bit Mary's lip gently. "If you'd like to be a man to a woman in bed, I can show you how..."

"I'd like that, very much," Mary whispered huskily.

Mathilde smiled. "Good. Are you ready to learn?"

Mary nodded, eyes wide, as Mathilde began undressing her. "Women like it slow. And they like it for a long time. Like how you touch yourself when you have all the time in the world. And women, we don't ever go soft. We can keep going for the longest time until both of us are satisfied." She guided Mary's hands to her skimpy dress, which Mary was terrible at unfastening. But at last Mary had stripped her, and they both stood naked. Mathilde pulled her over to the bed, smiling, and whispered, "You're going to be a man tonight...you're going to be my man tonight." She pushed Mary down on the bed and straddled her. "Pay attention, because you have a lot to learn."

Mary tried to ask a question, but was silenced by Mathilde's mouth and agile tongue.

The next morning, she was too loopy from fucking, too muzzy from lack of sleep, and too dopey overall to be much use for anything. She staggered back to the camp with a big, stupid grin, and a mental list (courtesy of Mathilde) of the whores she could trust to keep her secret and relieve her sexual frustration.


	3. 1712: A Semi-Decent Proposal

"What would you do? If you ever could? Besides soldiering?" She was carefully unlacing her boots and standing them in the corner of their shared tent.

"Well, I'd fair like to get married. Not some helpless little lass, though. I want a wife who's smart, and strong, and feisty. A woman who can hold her own."

"I'd like that too, I would."

"You won't find that in yer whorehouse, Read."

"Them girls're nice to me." She blushed, and bit her lip.

"Lad, they're nice because you pay. And you don't hit them."

"How do you know I don't?"

"I asked them."

"Wh--what did they say about me?!"

"That you were a nice lad who'd have a very happy wife someday. Somethin' about your tongue."

She was bright red now. "That's all?"

"Aye, they don't tell nothin' 'bout what a man's got in his trousers, lad, don't worry."

She hung her head in shame. "I'm...I'm not worried."

"They couldn't stop talking about your tongue, though."

She covered her face.

"But like I said, they ain't for marryin'. No, Read, you find yourself a nice lass when you're a bit older. You're officer material, and a lot of women love an army man."

"I want to do some honest work. Not keep on as a soldier."

"I'd like to run a little inn, myself. But I haven't the money to buy one. And soldiering's honest work."

"No, I don't like--them boys we're shooting at and stabbing, yeah? They ain't done anything to us, nor anyone we know. They're no more better or worse than we are. They're just poor lads like me, can't do nothing for pay but swing a sword so their mum has a roof over her head." She chewed on her lip, thinking about how to arrange her words. "All the reason we're fighting them is, they happened to be born somewhere where their king don't like my queen. An'--an'--that's not a good enough reason to kill 'em for. The kings and the queens, they don't never die in their own wars. They just send all their good young lads to do the fightin' and the dyin' for them."

"Careful, there's some as would call that treason."

"It's the truth, though. Kings and queens and emperors and such, they ain't any better people than us common folk. But they order us around to kill and to die. What if ya got a wicked king? Why should ya kill innocent people on his order? Wouldn't it be better to turn around an' kill him, instead?"

"That ain't for us to decide, Read."

"Wouldn't ya rather live in peace?"

"Sure I would, who wouldn't? But it ain't for us to decide."

"Ain't it? What if I could give ya everything ya wanted--the wife and the inn and the peace?"

"C'mon now, you ain't got the money to buy an inn."

"If we both retired from the army, we could. We could put together our pensions." She swallowed, her heart pounding. This was the time, this was it. Months of planning this, wanting this.

After a long moment, he replied, tiredly, "It's a lovely dream, Mark, but it ain't for men like us. You need yer pension to keep you and your wife someday, anyway."

"What if I married someone who had a pension too?"

"And who's that going to be?"

She carefully untied her breeches and pulled them down around her ankles, followed by her underthings, and turned around to face him. "You."

He goggled for a very long time. She sat on her bedroll, naked from the waist down, gazing at him with burning eyes. "I've been in love with you for ages. I know I ain't a typical woman, but I'd love if you had me for your wife. I'm smart, I'm strong, you know all that." Her voice was hoarse, but firm.

"Did you just propose to me?"

"...yes."

"I don't know..."

She gulped. "Well, ah...let me know when you've figured out..." Her voice was unsure, hoarse.

"What's your name? Your real name?"

"Mary. Mary Read. Mark was my brother's name."

"If you let your hair grow out, you'd be the loveliest lass I've ever known."

"Do you want to wait that long to marry me?"

"I'd have you tonight if you'd let me..."

She smiled crookedly. "Once you marry me, you can have me all you like."

He cursed, quietly. "Wicked woman!"

She smirked. "I ain't no camp follower. I'm intending to be either your brother-in-arms or your wife. Nothin' less."

He looked thoughtfully at her. "Wife. Definitely."

She grinned. "I was hopin' ya'd pick that." She coyly blew a kiss towards him, and pulled back on her undergarments. "Good night, then." She crawled into her bedroll calmly, as if nothing more important had happened than any other night.

"You're a brave woman, revealing yourself to a man like that and then just goin' to sleep in his presence."

"If ya were the type to ill-use a sleeping woman, I wouldn't have let ya know I was one." With that, she dropped off into sleep, a smile on her face.

He wrapped himself up in his own bedroll and blew out the candle, knowing he'd get no sleep at all until they could marry. Tomorrow he'd a day off. There had to be a church near the camp.


	4. 1713: Widowed

She knew she looked a mess, her hair rumpled, her eyes swollen from crying. Her black dress and veil made her look paler, more gaunt than she was. Lack of sleep had sunken her eyes even deeper than normal, and the amount of wine she'd been drinking every night had made her eyes red and dull.

But the worst, the _very worst_ , worse even than having to arrange for her husband's burial, worse than the worry about her own future, was that she had woken up after a couple of hours of tortured sleep to find blood all over her legs and the sheets.

It wasn't fair, she wanted to scream. She'd only had a scant few months with him. She'd hoped, looking at the calendar, counting one-two-three days late, that she'd at least have a child, something of his. Four-five-six and she was _sure_ , but seven brought deep gnawing pain and eight--well, day eight dashed her hopes and there was no point counting how late she had been, because she wasn't anymore. And all of him that had ever been was dead, dead, deader than dead, dead with her hopes and her plans and her dreams, and nothing more substantial than memories would show he'd ever been there, in her life, in her bed.

The only thing left was his will, the only reason she had cleaned herself up and bothered to dress. The inn had been shuttered since his death--she couldn't walk into his kitchen without calling out to him, she couldn't pet the cat without seeing it look for its master. Waking up in the inn every morning was as terrible as it had been, two weeks ago, when she went to bed beside a husband scorching with fever and woke beside a corpse cold as a stone. Her howling wail had woken up every guest in the inn, and they'd had to wrestle her away from his body.

Life had become a haze since, a fog of insincere condolences and obsessively counting days.

And now all that was left was alcohol to look forward to--blessed oblivion.

But first, the will. The solicitor's clerk beckoned her in, and she sat incuriously at the desk.

"Ma'am, he left everything to a man named Mark Read. He referred to him as his brother-in-law."

A tiny spark of interest. "That's...that's my brother."

"He specifies in his will that Mark is to take care of you and any children of the marriage--"

"There are none."

"But does not say how."

"I see."

"Do you need us to arrange for a trust for you?"

"No, no. I'll...I'll write to my brother."

"I'm very sorry, ma'am."

"Yes..."

Her head spun. He knew...he knew she had no liking for the ways a woman could make her way in the world. And he was telling her, it was his last message, he was saying to her that she should resume her disguise as a man. Make her own way. Depend on herself.

But she couldn't stand to be called Mark. Not after hearing it from his lips, mumbled with sleep of a morning, or feverish, delirious in those horrible last few days. No, she'd need a new name, a new identity. Mark would arrange for his property to be rented, and he could appear every once in a while to collect the proceeds, but he would vanish just as Mary Read would.

She didn't even want to be called Read anymore. It was by rights not even her name--her mother's husband had left his widow his name and his son. If Mary'd been planning to live as a widow, she'd have kept her husband's name, but it was better to forge a new identity. Maybe return to the sea--the treaty that had destroyed her inn's business had left dozens or hundreds of privateers out of work, but no doubt there was still plenty of work for a Navy man.

Thinking of the sea reminded her, and she decided her name would now be Kidd. She'd as much right to it as any name, that is to say, none at all.

The eyes, though.

Maybe out on the sea, she'd find the men with the crosses. Maybe she'd find curvy women who wouldn't mind a night with a lad who had nothing more than tongue and fingers to please them. Maybe she'd find her own life, her own dream, instead of living her beloved's dream. Maybe she'd be able to sleep.

Maybe she'd find a new family, not the parade of corpses that her kinfolk had become--mother, brother, not-exactly-grandmother, possible-father, husband, never-child. And maybe someday it would be her dancing on air, or burning with fever, or any of the hundreds of ways the world could kill a lad or a lady. But that was far better than dying slowly, living a woman's life, precluded by the existence of tits and cunt and womb from being herself.

She cut her hair, she bound her chest, she found her uniform and her boots. And she adjusted the red overcoat in the mirror, clicked the heels of her freshly shined boots together, and within two days James Kidd was on his way to the West Indies.


End file.
